La Tragédienne: Epilogue
by Anonymous by Preference
Summary: Rewritten, correctly this time. Erik and Shannon now live full , happy lives. And there have been additions. . . including Erik's long lost father? But is it too late? Does Erik really need him? One-shot father/son bonding.


**I apologize to readers who clicked on this. A glitch in the upload, I guess. Anyway, I've submitted this correctly. And I finally deliver my promised one-shot of the ending of La Tragédienne. Of all stories I've written, this one had been my favorite writing, and you fans have made it a fun experience. Of course, I bow to the masters Leroux and Webber for the inspiration. No copyrights. Please, review if you like it. Thank you:)**

**La Tragédienne: Epilogue**

A long night had ended. Or at least, the worst of it was over. Between sleep and awake, Erik's glazed eyes hovered over a composition, just nearly finished. His candle burned low, flickering over a few beautiful bars to a new aria. After such a night, no inspiration came. The hours of waiting, trained on his wife's laboring breaths, and the screeches of a newborn child took the energy that inspiration needs to feed. Once all the initial commotion died down, and the midwife declared her work done, and everyone having had their chance, it now came his turn. To his heart's content, he held a boy - his first son - close and swaddled.

Without the fear of passing on deformity, expecting a child became a joyful experience. His young lungs expanded with deep, placid breaths. The skin still pink from birth two hours ago. Every inch of him, from the chin down, wrapped in a dyed red wool, except for two feet and ten little stubs peaking out the end. Folding up the papers and putting all aside, Erik surrendered his attempts. Not all happiness could be expressed in music. Leaning his head back in the chair, the smooth, whispered chords of a lullaby caressed his sleeping son. For a few minutes, they remained rather alone, and Erik had nearly dropped off to sleep himself. Then a soft footstep from the hallway came, lingering just outside the ajar door.

"Pa?"

Pausing but without moving: "Roger, what are you still doing up?" he asked, fighting a terrible yawn.

"Couldn't go back to sleep," replied the boy, mouth open wide and a balled fist rubbing sleep out of one eye. "And I saw the light on."

"I can't go to bed until your grandfather comes," answered Erik. "His train seems to be late." Coming round, he lowered his feet from the ottoman, knowing Roger. The boy quickly made himself comfortable. Though only clothed in a long gown, the midnight chill had no effect. Erik still wore his boots, and still dressed from that afternoon trip to town to fetch the doctor. Little had changed; with everyone gone though, he'd removed his own mask.

"Can I stay up with you?" Roger begged.

"I should say no, but I can't enforce right now," he sighed. "Well, at least, keep yourself warm. Put my cloak on." Off to a corner of the chair, Erik pulled down the same, worn cape. Everyone in his family had all used it, one time or another. And he'd used it to play games with Mende so often as a baby, throwing it over her head, pulling it back, making her cackle every time. Obediently and gladly, Roger snuggled himself into its velvet interior.

"Poor Grandfather," said Roger. "He missed everything."

"I'm glad of that," Erik contradicted. "He's too old for that kind of excitement."

Maybe he didn't want to sleep, but Roger's face showed every sign of a desperate need of it: slow blinks, glazed eyes, and dullness. Thoroughly fascinated, a giddy sort of grin grew on him, looking at his brother's serene features. "Finally, I get to have a brother," he said.

"I'm sure Haydn will appreciate your companionship as he gets older."

"What's his middle name going to be?"

"Paul," said Erik. "After your uncle."

"It sounds good for him: Haydn Paul Destler," he tried it out, nodding satisfied. "Pa?"

"Yes, Roger?" Looking up, he expected another simple-minded, boyish question that Roger usually made. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to see his stepson grow, with a happy temper and easy disposition. But in this instance, there was nothing naïve or childlike about him. Rather, his eyes seemed to go a little dark, twitching a little nervous in the dim light of the candle.

"Was I named after my father?" he asked.

A surprise, indeed, but it wasn't a case of the unexpected. For that minute, Erik looked on a five year old like a man. In this boy was a little of himself, for many years, never knowing and always doubtful, and never looking back on the past with regret. Up until recently, the truths behind his family and evanescent childhood had been denied his heart. One could live without a beginning; he'd learned it. A father is not necessary for survival, but a father and mother make up apart of a child's heart. Without one or both, what does he become? It's a heart of holes. Sadly enough, it was true of his stepson. And his older sister, just the same.

"No. You're not," Erik replied simply, wishing that would end it. A rather impossible wish. "When a child's born, they should become a person all their own."

"That's what Mama says."

"And she's right," he nodded. "It's not every child that enjoys the freedom to grow up and make his own way."

Roger nodded sleepily, but with some understanding. "I've always wondered about him. I know you and Mama told me about my. . . well, my actual father, but not much."

"Yes," he recalled. "We wouldn't lie to you."

"I know."

"Some things are just too much for you to know right now. You're still young."

"I'm not a baby, Pa. Why can't I know?"

"It's not my story to tell," he dismissed. "Understand, Roger, that we're not hiding the truth from you. It's never been our plan to erase him from existence. One day, you'll know all there is to know, and things you won't like hearing about him. We don't want you to have to face those feelings right now."

"I understand. . . I just wonder what he was like, what he looked like. . . Things like that. And what happened to him." Erik's jaw began to clench, and a hard swallow moved uncertainly in his throat. Remembrance was forbidden in this house, or at least, recalling it. To sadden his mother or make his sister snappish didn't do anyone good. It would also be difficult to explain the circumstances of his death. Accidental, of course. His mother had survived, but it was purely chance. His actions had not been with the intention. Self-defense, in defense of their mother and the both of them he'd been moved to a final resort. . .

"Your father. . ." Erik began cautiously, his eyes low. "He was a very highborn man. Back in England, he was a certain gentleman called a lord, and his particular title was what the English call a duke."

"What does a duke do?"

"He and his family are relations of royalty, or something of that nature. They do things and important jobs for the royal family and Parliament; at least, that's what their title entails. And he owned a very large house, an estate, with many servants. Entertaining many other noblemen like him. Your mother wasn't born of family as high as him, but he did. . ." Erik couldn't find it conceivable, but he'd only known the man as he was at the very end. "He did love your mother, once."

"But why?" Roger puzzled. "Why did she love him, if he did bad things to her?"

"You remember that much," Erik shook his head. "Well, he wasn't always that way. When he courted your mother and for awhile after they'd been married, he was pleasant with her. Sometimes, though, for one reason or another, things happen in life that change people. And they start to resent, or. . . hate things about their life. I can't say what exactly happened. I never knew him like your mother did, but he slowly began to change. And he didn't treat your mother the same way, and just. . . forgot he loved her. It's hard to describe; that's just the simplest way I could put it to you. And he had a bad habit of drinking too much, liquor I mean. It made him worse, more short-tempered and aggressive, more thoughtless. And the more he drank, the less he could care what he said and how he acted. . . Your mother was powerless to stop him. When she tried to help him, he often ended up hurting her. . ."

"Like what?" Roger replied somberly.

Erik blinked slow, feeling the blood in every vein burn from the chill. "You have no idea what I mean. No one's ever touched you with a belt or strap before," he muttered coldly. "But it wasn't just getting bruised and beaten; it was also the cruel things he said, the names he called her, insulting her." It was her memory, and her pain, but the thought enough tormented him years later. His love healed her, but it didn't have the complete power to take that away. His dark gaze looked back through time to that one nearly fatal night, when he'd taken Shannon under his wing after a surprise encounter with the duke. And to think the man would've come after her, snatched both her children, what a miserable life they'd have known. They'd have been his subjects, his servants, not children. Cruelty could've warped them, that is, if they survived the man's drunken tantrums.

"You'd have been afraid of him. Your mother and sister left to be free and safe, and to protect you."

"Protect me? I'd not been born yet, Pa."

"You could've. . . Never mind; I'm not explaining that. But he would've hurt you, just the same as he did them."

"Is that why Ambro has bad dreams sometimes, and screams in the middle of the night?"

In his desire to be honest, he regretted having said to much, seeing a pang in the boy's face take shape. "You alright?" asked Erik, a hand on Roger's knee.

"That's terrible. . . Why? How come no one stopped him?" A flush of indignity surfaced, just like a frustrated, outraged boy would react. Yet, Erik didn't feel any sense of accomplishment. For he tread on the grave of his stepson's father, then allowing the boy to do just the same. It wasn't vengeance against a dead man. It wasn't murder. But the pain was of genuine guilt.

"Nobody could stop him, and no one believed it. It was all your mother. No one was there to rescue her, but that didn't stop her. She brought you and your sister to France with no prospects, no skills, no friends, and little money. And I know, she'd have braved worse, just so that you and Ambro could have a good life."

With the conviction he spoke, Roger returned a rather endeared smile. Not a day passed with any doubt, any doubt how deeply his stepfather loved him. However, it was a matter of simple expressions: 'my boy,' 'son,' 'I love you.' Of all things they shared, this moment, this history, this possession held something special.

"Pa?" Roger swallowed nervously. "I don't look a lot like him, do I?"

"No."

"But. . . a little?"

"You have dark hair like he did. Maybe just a few similarities. But everyone says you look more like your mother."

"I'm glad," he agreed. "I don't want to be like him."

"Trust me, Roger. . ." Stopping a second, he chuckled, seeing a rather strange irony. "Funny, I used to worry about the children I fathered looking like me. And you find it insulting to resemble your father with an ordinary face."

"What's the matter with your face, Pa?"

"You're a liar, Roger. But, I'll admit, very generous."

". . ."

"You won't ever be like him, in any way. I know you. You're kind and caring. And bring all of us much joy. You love me like your father, and I've come to think of myself as your real father. But it makes no difference. You're as much my son as Haydn is, Roger."

"I know, Pa."

It hadn't been so long ago that Roger, the same size as the new arrival, had been cradled in his arms. And that love, the very same blind devotion that all newborns give to whomever holds them, had not given way to the truth. A boy could chose what to believe and who to love, of his own will. This result truly amazed him. A reformed criminal, so loved and trusted, did not need forgiveness. Children had a way of undoing bad pasts, absolving things he could not reconcile to himself.

Thankfully for the interruption of Goodman, the butler, Erik was able to stay dry-eyed and composed, at least enough to swallow and breathe.

"Begging your pardon, monsieur," rasped the older man, clearing his throat, "but M. Destler has just arrived. I've shown him into the parlor."

"Thank you, Goodman," nodded Erik. "Come Roger. It's time you were in bed."

By this time, he hadn't the will to argue with that. One quick hug and squeeze of the shoulder, Roger walked aimlessly in the direction of his room. Once tucked in and candle blown out, sleep came in less than a minute. Although, with reflection, Erik had always managed to get Roger to lay down and sleep whenever his mother didn't succeed. On the way back down the hall, passing Ambro and Mende's rooms, Erik snuck a glance through both doors. Mende remained sound and undisturbed, with one arm thrown up behind her head. The stuffed monkey that Roger used to sleep with as a baby became hers. Her other arm wrapped its neck. No child they'd had yet looked so much like Shannon.

"_Doux rêves, petit ange_," he whispered. Though able to throw his voice near her ear from the doorway, he left her to those sweet dreams he wished her.

Ambro heard her door; one eye opened as far as a squint, as the gaslights in the hall broke the soft of the darkness. By the look, Erik caught her half-way between awake and dead sleep; the lip took a dreamy curve. The words of good night a bit thick and slurred.

"Thank you for your moral support today," he said. "You sleep well."

"Thank you, Papa," she yawned, sinking back into the depths of her pillow. "You too."

"_Vous aimez_," he smiled.

"You too. . ." Only because she was still awake, he quietly and quickly went to her and dipped her a kiss goodnight.

Nobody, however, was as much exhausted as Shannon. After everyone had cleared out, with the lights turned down to flickers, the last reserves of life that day were drained. The braid he'd made her earlier had become disheveled. Though pale, the glow had not gone. Once Haydn rest in his cradle, alongside younger sister, Psalm, he sat and bent down beside his wife. Beneath her eyelids, a dreamless peace held her in bliss. Though hardly in a comfortable position, it didn't matter. Knowing her to be sore all over, he handled her gentle, tilting her head back and readjusting the pillow to better accommodate her neck.

A sigh moved from her lungs. "Can I get you anything?" A mere, weak headshake served for an answer. Counting this occasion, it had been four labors, four childbirths. But five children. Twins were not a trait of her English family history; neither of them had any idea up until recently that there ran a possibility in Erik's vague, estranged side. In spite of all, the smile was in her lips, just barely.

"I'm fine," mumbled Shannon. "I thought I. . . heard the front door."

"My father's here."

". . . Give him my love for me. . . 'til tomorrow. . ." she yawned.

"You'll not be going downstairs for at least a couple of days. He'll understand."

"Haydn. . . Psalm?"

"They're doing just fine. Now get some sleep."

"Will you pull the cradle a little closer?"

Of course, he complied. "You don't need to get up. If they need to nurse, I'll get up for you." That had been a habit since Mende's birth. This sweet chivalry lasted long beyond the first few days. For the first few months, which required repeating risings in the middle of the night, he attended to the both of them. To the detriment of sleep, he did so. Whether it would last, with twins, Shannon didn't expect it to, and a smile spread. As much as she wished, she couldn't will her eyes open. Every muscle from the abdomen and below had been tenderized until the end of the ordeal. Then, a wonderful numbness.

A hand of hers reached but lay limb across the top covers.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Sleep well."

"L-love you. . ."

"You are amazing," he chuckled, elevating her neck and shoulders by an arm. "Two babies, nineteen hours later."

"Tha- isn't amazing. It'll be those nights I wake up every two hours. . . May not hear that as much then."

Leaning over, his own smile and soft laughter mingled with a kiss. Delirious words, but of some substance. Ever since they'd married, he used to count how many times 'I love you' could be said in the course of a week. It had been a habit of once every day. If they happened to quarrel, then it was twice or more, accompanied to the apology. Whenever the occasion of an unfortunate nightmare occurred, the expression was mumbled and tearful, and repeated several times. Over the months, and bygone years, he didn't count anymore. And the doubt had gone as well. _Is she happy? Is she satisfied? Does she have any doubt, any regret? _

Before he even left the room, his wife returned to sleep, in long, slow breaths. A portrait of all the happiness the world could offer, if there ever was one. And her state was much envied, knowing he was to face his father. Just as he'd always been, at the Opera, he walked through the halls and down the stairs with no aid of light. Within himself, he grew to appreciate the fact he had changed; also that he'd not taken after him. What was there to love about a father that left his own? At this point, they were beyond reasons and regrets. Shannon took care of that for the both of them. It didn't bridge any gap, however. She'd always held that wish, while he could care less.

The housemaid had prepared a fire earlier, which had then dwindled to an orange glow. The occasional pop stirred in the coals, no more. He found the man with his wheelchair pushed as close to the grate as possible. Shoes off and discarded to the side. Dusty and smelling of the stables, Daniel had brought the older man a candle and asked for any further needs. A quick nod to the younger man, Erik dismissed with a lipped word of thanks. A pile of blankets lay still folded on the divan. With them, a crisp pillow and a weather-beaten trunk. His father made no turn with the wheels.

"Forgive me, I've come so late."

"It's no matter," replied Erik. "I'll start making up your bed."

"Thank you. I hope-"

"You're not in the way," he answered curtly.

"Well, I'm not-"

"You're more than welcome here."

"Of course, she told you to say that," the old man shrugged. "It was her idea, I know. You just agreed for the sake of peace. . ." At his son's unwillingness to reply, he ventured on a safer topic. "How is she now?"

"Very tired. But it's nothing that'll keep her down for long."

"Were you both very surprised?"

"It was unexpected, but we're not shocked," replied Erik, throwing the first blanket down across the cushions. "Your little insight, I think, got us ready for the idea."

"You keep saying you and her; how about you? How is this all working for you?"

"What do you mean?" he snapped. Throwing a glance of warning over his shoulder, he took him off guard. "Why do you think otherwise?"

"I just wonder about you, that's all," his father vouched innocently.

"What? You think this is prison, don't you? I suppose a man without restraints, used to travel, would think that." If words were bullet, the shot hit him painfully.

"Erik, if I could've done it all over again, I would've stayed-"

"I know." There was little belief in that.

"I know I was supposed to be the other half in your childhood. I'm sorry for that."

"Yes," Erik hissed impatiently. "I know you are. Just. . ."

"You're right. I. . . I'm sorry," he sighed. "I'm too late for that; I accept that. I'm sorry."

". . ."

"How are the children?"

"Just fine. Ambro and Roger have been looking forward to meeting you."

"Those two are the stepchildren, right?"

"Yes."

"And what are they like?"

"Ambro is eleven, and Roger's just turned five. If you'd be so kind, don't pinch any cheeks. They won't like you for that. Ambro will eat anything made with cherries, and I warn you, she may be a little talkative." His father chuckled at his narrative. "Roger's recently developed a fascination for chess, but if you play him, be gentle. The boy's still learning. Can't ever keep his hands clean. They're either stained with paint or covered in charcoal."

"And Mende?"

"She's very shy," Erik nodded. As opposed to the older, more outgoing children, his little girl surged protective feelings through his voice. "She loves her little stuffed toys, and treats them very carefully. She loves listening to our music; the violin's her favorite. Spends a lot of time at my side while I compose; sometimes, she'll fall asleep on the bench. Can't say about her, if she'll sing or not."

"Oh, she'll sing," smiled his father. "I bet she's rather fascinated by the pair of you."

"Yes. . ."

"So what's behind the names of Haydn and Psalm, just out of curiosity?"

"After the composer, of course."

"I've heard of Josef Haydn. Never heard of Psalm."

"It was Shannon who thought of it," explained Erik. "The Bible book of Psalms."

"Ah, yes."

". . . Are you offended?"

"Why should I be?" the man shrugged. "What did I do to deserve a grandchild?"

"Their names are Haydn Michael and Psalm Rosette."

"You didn't have to do that, really Erik."

"You forget, I did invite you to come, not just Shannon."

"Why? What have I done to deserve it?" he mumbled embittered. "I'm just a selfish man. Disgracing myself, leaving my wife and unborn son, living as if I never had none: what is that? It's only a monster. . ."

Erik had just dropped the pillow into place at the sound of the word. It hadn't been heard in quite some time, and some time had passed since he had thought that of himself. Frozen and suddenly cold, he had just heard his voice in another man.

"You were," he whispered, nodding. "But you aren't now, not anymore. . ." Sad eyes of uncanny resemblance looked up. For in them, a thick darkness without light, without music. There was only the sound of a beating heart in a hallow space. The wheelchair squeaked as it turned to face him.

"How can you say?" his father pondered. "You know what I am; everything I've done. Why do you forgive me?"

"Because I was forgiven," Erik answered. "Because I was a monster once myself. And I felt as you do."

"Shannon?"

"It was all three of them. Her, Ambro and Roger. . . Mende, Haydn, Psalm: every single one of them forgive me every day they live."

"And what do you do to deserve them? How do you know?"

"I can't say I do. . . You know if they love you."

By the shape of the lips, eager words trembled and begged for escape. But knowing better, the old man didn't go any farther. Considering all that could've been, no man could be more proud of his son; the feeling was natural. And nothing hurts so much than such an intense emotion forced into containment, denial. Watching him, weaken and swallow and crumble within, Erik tasted the spite of the moment. But his own eyes, in spite of himself, were reacting to the sight of this man.

"Well, you ready?" asked Erik. With some hesitation, the wheels churned with trembling hands, pale and blue from the many visible veins. Having dispensed with the gloves, the chill of many years apart exude from his father's skin. Getting in and out of the chair proved most difficult. Erik's arms compensated for the other's immobility of the legs. Surprisingly enough, for a large and muscular figure, the burden was light, shifting him from the chair to divan.

Tucked in and settled, with the flannel wrapped round his lower body, the duty of caregiver had been discharged.

"Thank you," sighed his father, tiredly. "I appreciate this."

"You're within reach of the bell chord. If you need anything, Goodman will see to you."

"Erik. . ."

At the doorway, he'd nearly escaped. It would've been easy enough to keep walking for the stairs. More than a half of him wished it desperately.

"Erik?" he repeated.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"If it won't take long," he grimaced.

"Do you ordinarily wear that daily, all the time?" With his son's face in the shadows, the reaction couldn't be deciphered. "This is your house. I don't want to change anything here."

"Don't be offended that I prefer it around you."

". . ."

"Well, if that's all, good night-"

"Erik-"

"No," he groaned, growing impatient.

"Erik."

". . . What do you want?" he shook his head. "What do you want from me?"

"Come here."

". . ."

"Am I your father?" he asked. The eyes wide and suddenly a little gruff. "When I say come here, I mean come here."

What would a boy do hearing that? Obey. It was the first and the last, as he - his father- would take charge of him. As it was only just this once, Erik generously obliged, silent but reluctantly. One of those cold hands reached for a wrist, and with all their strength, for all that an invalid is capable, pulled him down to his knees. Both faces now level with each other.

"Your mother made your first mask, didn't she?" he said. Pity in his eyes. Compassion in his voice. Tender of hand. One hand rested upon a shoulder. "It should be me to take it off."

It sounded like a question, but worded as a declaration. Under any other circumstance, this advance would've outraged him and sent him from the room in betrayal, in fear. But he'd done it all before. He'd done it for his wife, for all their children. Everyone that loved him, relatives and friends alike, judged that half of his face as perfectly acceptable. Only no one dared without permission. Erik gave none, and yet, this man decreed himself the right. Off it came, in one slow and gentle movement, exposing every inch of sunken, bloated, discolored, and scarred tissue. Out of his control, a slight shudder racked his body.

"Hope you're not offended I say so," said his father. "but I see a little of me. You look more like your mother."

The shivering didn't stop, or rather, he couldn't stop it. His jaw clenched against his lower. The head shook to throw them off. In the end, Erik lost the power over tears. A hand reached out and covered his father's, on his shoulder. With the loss of tears was also the loss of words. Especially to think, remembering how his own mother had refused to kiss him. At the very top of his forehead, the old man delivered it. Easing his own embarrassment, Erik had not been alone in tears. The last thing still had him trembling with laughter, an ironic laugh.

The mask his father had returned to his hands, restoring him his choice. But Erik didn't put it back to his face.

Epilogue: Sequel of La Tragédienne


End file.
